In Service: A Science Fantasy Quest

"Sean, do you think you can muddle through?" You ask the Dullahan standing next to you.

"Aye, well, I can try." He responds lacklusterly. You get the impression that he's not especially enthused about this whole situation.

"That's all I ask." You thank him for his efforts, which earns you a smile that sends a flutter through your rebellious heart. You'd thought you'd gotten a hold of this already, dammit!

"Splendid!" Archibald Winchester proclaims, clapping his hands together in a sharp tap that pulls you from your thoughts. "If you'd follow me, I'm sure my father's waiting for you in the study." He gestures broadly at the estate. "You never know who, or what, is listening in."

"Well, that's certainly ominous." Sean states, wiping some residual sweat from his forehead.

"Isn't it?" The young Winchester exclaims as he leads you through the trees, towards the manor on the hill. "But it is good advice, we've got some contracted spirits that roam around, keeping the place tidy. Oh, what're they called? Lawnkeepers or something."

"Groundskeepers." You mention.

"Yes, that's the word! Groundskeepers!" He smiles as he thanks you.

With that, you arrive at the front door to Winchester Manor. Which isn't the same Winchesters as the gun designers—different Winchesters, apparently.

The inside of the manor can be described with five words: dark wood and cold iron. You can't quite identify what tree the wood is made out of, other than it looks expensive.

It's all very tasteful. The walls bear ornate decorations with curling crenulations. The floors are heated and warm. Marble statues sit in picked positions, busts of members of the Winchester family.

There's really not as much gold as you were thinking there would be. And what gold is there is quickly left behind as you move through the manor at a relatively brisk pace.

You're led up a flight of stairs, Sean behind you as Archibald gives you a brief tour of the place—what little you see of it on your way to the study at least.

The doors to the study are short, surprisingly squat things. Engravings are carved into the rich, lacquered wood, the patterns giving off strong magical resonances. The doors aren't small out of a desire for them to be small, you realize, they're small to better concentrate the magic.

You have to stoop slightly to fit through the door, but once you entered the room opened up quite a bit.

It's a fancy affair that reminds you vaguely of your father's own study. A small library curves around a rounded edge, a cut-out letting in light through a window is placed in the center of the bookshelves. A grand desk made of the finest mahogany sits facing the window on the other side of the room. A green and comfortable-looking office chair is pushed in, close to an open book.

Atop the desk is a sight you'd half-thought you'd never get the chance to see.

The Chainsaw sits proudly on a green mat, a pristine shine to its body. The teeth of its 18 inch long blade catch the rays of light streaming into the room in a show of glimmering pride. The cherry red paint is as vibrant as ever, like it was made yesterday. The bare metal shines in the mid-morning light, bright and polished to a mirror-like finish.

It almost seems to beckon to you. Begging you to pick up your birthright and lay waste to the demonic hordes. To clean the once silver name of the tarnished Williams.

You run your fingers over the mastercraft weapon of demon slaying prowess. The teeth are as sharp as the stories described it—so sharp you nick yourself just by pressing your finger lightly against the tool of eternal war.

While its near-endless engine is cold, it seems to hum with a powerful anticipation. It hungers to spill the blood of the enemies of mankind—the many, many years spent doing just that having had an effect on the soul of the machine.

The handles look to be too big for you to wield, your hands simply too slender to hoist it properly. Once you wrap your fingers around it, however, that changes. It fits your hands perfectly, like it was meant for you to use.

You get the impression that it's like this for all Williams, the loyal servant recognizing the master's rightful claim.

"Impressive, no?"

You jump, startled as you whip around to face the speaker—the Chainsaw somehow finding its way into your hands.

The speaker is a tall man that bears a striking resemblance to Archibald standing outside the study. Though, this obvious Winchester is much older than his, presumably, son.

This must be Henry, the man you spoke to over the phone.

"Y-yeah," you breathe out, finally noticing the breath you'd been holding in, "it's certainly something."

"When we bought it at auction, it was in poor condition." Your blood boils at the thought as Henry walks around you to the other side of the desk. "The paint was faded and peeling, the chain snapped and rusted, the metal warped and half-melted—like it'd been through the stomach of some beast."

"But you fixed it." You hazard a guess as Henry pulls the green leather office chair out.

"But we fixed it, sparing no expense in the process." He confirms, nodding as he sits down. He nods towards the chair sitting across from him, on your side of the desk. "Please, have a seat. We have much to discuss."

"What do you want to know?" You ask, taking the seat. It's a pleasant thing, slightly over-stuffed but not uncomfortably so and with soft velvet brushing against your arms.

"I have many questions, as I'm sure you're aware. Fortunately for me, many if not all of these questions can be answered by you." He smiles, leaning back in his chair as he steeples his fingers. "Why don't we start with something simple: why now? Why, after all these years, do you come for it now?"

That is an easy one. "I only found out about it being here recently. If I'd known earlier I'd have contacted you about it earlier."

Henry hmms, thinking for a moment before nodding sharply once. "I believe that that makes sense, yes. Now then, the next question on our docket. After you called me, I did some research on the history of the Williams and came across a most peculiar figure: Ashley J. Williams, the progenitor of your family."

"What do you want to know about him?" You're gonna have to be careful here, if you're right and Ash is out and about—letting somebody know about that could be extremely dangerous.

"What, exactly, is a 'Chosen One'?"

"Oh that's easy." You release a tension-filled sigh. "A Chosen One, or rather, the Chosen One is an individual who, upon birth, is ordained to be the greatest thorn in evil's side. When the bells toll and true evil rises once again, the soul of the Chosen One is reborn to combat it in a new form."

"Interesting." Henry mutters, thoughts somewhere else. "But, what makes the Chosen One so special?"

You shrug. "What makes the Chosen One so special is twofold. The first is that the Chosen One is preternaturally talented at slaying evil—they will struggle, they will bleed, they will suffer, but they will triumph eventually. The second is that when they kill something, it stays dead—for the most part. While the forces of evil are infinite and eternal, when killed by the Chosen One they are lessened, made weaker by their loss."

"And is it possible to predict when, or who, will be the Chosen One?" There's something here you're not getting, that you're not aware of. But with the Chainsaw on the line, you can't afford to question it. "Like, say, a prophecy? I believe that prophecies and Chosen Ones are often linked."

"Yeah, most of the time there's some kind of prophecy attached to it. Ash's was called something along the lines of a 'hero from the sky', if I recall correctly."

"Very, very interesting." There's something in Henry's words that causes your skin to crawl. The well-groomed man leans back "I'm sure you're wondering why I'm asking these questions."

"That thought had crossed my mind, yes." You nod, eyes narrowing as the elder Winchester flips through the open book on his desk. He spins the book around and pushes it towards you, a perfectly-manicured finger taps at a handwritten passage in the leatherbound book.

"I discovered this in my grandfather's journal while cleaning three weeks ago. Go ahead, read it."

You do so, eyes scanning the page. Over all, it's pretty standard prophecy stuff in your opinion. Mentions of 'great, shadowy doom spreading across the land' and 'the armies of creeping evil corrupting all they touch' are a dime a dozen amongst things like this.

But one line stands out to you. A line that, given the weirdness of the situation, honestly makes your skin crawl.

From the line of the Ashen Hero, a new Champion shall be born by a union between two powerful mortal families.

"And you think this is… literal?" You ask with some hesitation.

"I have an offer for you, Itzabella AP Williams." Yeah, yeah you really don't like how he says your name.

"What is your offer, Henry HG Winchester?" Two can play at this game, Harvey-George. "Is it the price I must pay for the Chainsaw?" You flick your eyes to the object of your thoughts.

"No." He says to your surprise. "The Chainsaw was simply to get you to sit and listen. If you don't like what I have to offer, that is perfectly fine, you simply may take the Chainsaw and leave at any moment. All I ask is that you hear me out."

"Alright…" You sigh, slumping down in your comfortable chair. The least you can do is listen to what he has to say.

"You know as well as I that evil is rising once again. The forecasts are being clouded by black, shadowy masses." To be honest, you didn't know that. But you're not gonna let that slip. "Evil, true evil, is returning."

"...And the Chosen One must as well, to combat this new evil."

"Correct." He says, steepling his fingers once again. "Two powerful families and a union between them."

"And you think this union is, what, a marriage between the Winchesters and the Williams? How can you even know? There are loads of powerful families, for crying out loud."

"How many are mortal, truly mortal?" He prods, answering your question with one of his own. "I'll tell you the answer, only two: your Williams and my Winchesters."

"Who would even marry?" You exclaim, leaning back in your cushioned chair. "There's only the two of you in the Winchesters and there aren't any eligible Williams, unless you want to marry my Aunt. Good luck getting to her, though, she's locked away in a sub-dimensional prison."

"You're not quite right there, Miss Williams."

You frown, furrowing your eyebrows. "What are you talking ab- no, you can't mean…"

Henry Winchester smiles. "My son is about your age, you've met him, yes? I've been led to believe that he is quite handsome too."

You're quiet for quite some time, stewing in your own thoughts. Until, that is, you remember something. "Chosen Ones don't always appear when evil rises again, most of the time evil gets defeated by good people long before a Chosen One would ever be required."

He shrugs. "Better safe than sorry. I assure you, you will be kept in the greatest of comfort and security, you and the baby."

And you're back to being silent, this time out of a steaming anger rather than shock.

What do yo- (Overruled by Itza)

"No." Your mouth moves on its own, before your brain can even process it. "No, I don't think I will be doing that." You stand up, and lay a hand on the Chainsaw, as if daring him to try and stop you.

"Itzabella, please reconsider!" He cries, trying to grab your wrist as you wrench your arm away. "You don't know what the stakes are! The consequences could be enor-!"

"Could be, not will be. That's the keyword there." You reply coldy, glaring with as much volcanic fury as you can muster. With the cherry red Chainsaw in hand, you march right to the tiny door.

"Women!" Henry snarls, face twisting into a look of utter revulsion. "All the same! Too cowardly to do what needs to be done!"

You flip him off as you stoop to exit the study, your lone finger greeting a wall of spewing misogynistic bullshit.

Archibald tries to say something to you as you emerge, but Sean takes one look at the expression on your face and pulls him back.

Thanks, Sean.

~~~~~~~

"So…" Sean rocks on his heels as you two stand outside the now closed front gate of the Winchester Estate. "Wanna talk about what happened back there? I didn't hear much, think there was a muffle charm on the room, but you seem kinda pissed."

After a moment's silence, he shrugs and shoves his hands in his pockets. "It's cool if you don't."

Do you want to talk about it?
[ ] Yes (Will likely lead to you and Sean getting closer)
[ ] No (Just carry on home in silence, you can likely make it there if you leave now)

~~~~~~~

GM's Note: If there were to be an interlude, what do you want it to be about?

Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST, thanks for reading!

By the way, here are the stats of the Chainsaw
(The Chainsaw (7 Slashing Damage, Damage Doubled against Evil, Extremely Durable Ancestral Heirloom, Badass, Unique, 1/2 Hands, Medium-Large Item))

"Things got kinda… screwy." You finally say after a few moments of silence. "Come on, lets walk and talk."

A light breeze buffets your hair as you stand before the front gate to Winchester Estate. The wind whistles in your ears, carrying a brisk chill—uncharacteristically cold for Kansas in the summer.

Drying grass falls beneath your shoes as you make your way to where Sean and you parked.

"Screwy?" Sean questions while making his way down a low hill. "How so?"

"There was this… well," you start, struggling to find the proper words—your hands grasping at the air wildly, "a prophecy."

"A prophecy?" Sean quirks a ginger brow, skepticism clear in his eyes. Prophecies aren't exactly an uncommon thing, there's loads of them out there foretelling the end of everything if this one guy doesn't brush his teeth, to give an example. The vast majority of the time they're made by hacks and frauds or are completely misinterpreted. Not many people actually have the talent or gift for precognition, even less can coherently convey what they're seeing.

"Chosen One things, you know the deal." You shrug, shoulders rising and falling. "Great evil on the rise and things like that."

Sean ahs, nodding in understanding. "That I do."

You fall into silence again after that. The quiet stillness is only broken once you begin speaking again.

"This prophecy called that the Chosen One will be born from a union between two powerful mortal families." You explain as Sean starts putting two and two together.

"You don't mean…" He trails off, a look of slight disgust on his face.

"Yeah, Old Man Winchester tried to set me up with his son. And then got really misogynistic once I refused." You kick a rock down the grass, nailing their mailbox with a well-aimed pebble.

"That's feckin' gross." The red-headed Dullahan declares, accent slipping a bit.

"Yeah, yeah it is."

"Surprised he didn't try to coerce you with the Chainsaw." The immigrant Irishman adds.

"You know, I had the same thought. So much so that I asked to make sure that the Chainsaw wasn't in the equation." You pat the cherry red weapon of demonic destruction at your side. "It's good to have it back, it feels like a part of me that I never knew was missing finally returned."

"It's a piece of demon killing kit, right?" You nod in confirmation. "So, what does it do?"

"Kills demons good." You shrug, jostling it for emphasis. "Extremely durable, so much so that it takes a high level demon to even dull the teeth. Has a sub-dimensional fuel tank so you don't run out while on the job, though refueling it can be a bitch."

"Sounds like a good weapon… Say…" He begins, a thought coming to mind before trailing off. "Nah, forget it."

"Oh come on," you reply, laughing while you roll your eyes, "can't be that bad."

"Well, alright then." He squares his shoulders, readying himself. "Do you think they wanted you only because you fit the bill or did your looks play a part?" You blink and he hurriedly continues, stumbling over his words in the process. "C-cause I mean, you are quite attractive and I-I saw the way that guy was looking at you and… and…" The handsome man trails off, his mouth opening and closing as he gestures at the air.

A several heartbeats pass as you bluescreen.

"...you…you really think that?" You whisper out in minor disbelief. There are many words and expressions that you'd use to describe yourself, but 'attractive' wasn't ever one of them.

Intellectually, you know that you have nice looking facial features and a fit body—on account of you coming from money, the genetic modifications your maternal gene donor did to herself before your birth, and the time you spent in the gym so you don't fall behind in field work. But it's never really crossed your mind that that could be seen as attractive to other people.

"Well of course!" Sean nearly shouts, waving his toned arms at the sky. "I mean, l-look at you! You're competent, one of the smartest people I know, funny as hell, extremely teasable, drop-dead-gorgeous, and, above everything else, awesome as hell."

"...you're not so bad yourself." You mutter before you notice your mouth moving. You blink, as does Sean.

Heat rises to your cheeks just as his skin gains a lively hue. Is that what that looks like from the outside? …interesting, this will require further study.

"So, uh, what happens next?" Sean eventually asks as you reach where you parked the ghost bike.

[ ] "I… I don't know if I'm ready for a romantic relationship yet." You're gonna settle things in your life before you attempt romance, once that's done… who knows? (This is the option to deny romance, at least for now)

[ ] "Maybe we should take it slow and see what happens?" You'll take things slow, let whatever spark that's growing between you two develop on its own. (This is the option to let things remain as they are now)

[ ] "People date each other, right? Let's try that." You've elected to take a more active approach in fostering this relationship. (This is the option to pursue romance)


Fair Warning: There is no guarantee that you and Sean will work out together if you do decide to pursue romance. Something might come up between the two of you or something tragic might happen to one of you in the line of duty. That's just how life is.

There is, however, a guarantee from me, the GM, that I won't put my finger on the scales, so to speak. I won't force you into a relationship nor will I force you out of one.

~~~~~~~

GM's Note: Congratulations, everyone, The Quest for the Chainsaw is now complete and you're gonna be back home next turn.

Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST, thanks for consuming!

Before I go, I have one more thing to ask of you.
Which interlude do you want to see?

[ ] The Seeded Alleyway

[ ] The American Ninja

[ ] The Alps Defender

[ ] The Dog Owner

[ ] The Talkative Outsider

Bill pulled ahead in that doggy way of his, nearly yanking Claudia Berwitz from her feet as she walked him up the sidewalk. She merely sighed, a soft smile on her face as she readjusted her blue-rimmed glasses.

They'd just been to the dog park, Claudia studiously avoiding the section the incident had happened in. It was a shame, too, that bit was one of Bill's favorite paths to walk. Likely on account of all the squirrels that hung about there, but it was a small price to pay to avoid any leftover vampiric infestation.

The Service of Supernatural Solutions had sent a clean up detail to clear out anything still there. Apparently they had found a body! And not just any body, but the body of a deceased Vampire Lord of all things!

To think, such a thing was so close to her house! There are horror stories floating around on the internet, tales of Vampire Lords showing up in some obscure town and depopulating them in a matter of hours—help arriving far too late to make a difference and oftentimes falling victim to the vampire in question.

Sure, with a Service Division headquartered in the city she doubts that the Vampire Lord couldn't have gotten very far before being stopped, but being stopped and her still being alive are two very different things.

You know… the story of a Vampire Lord arriving in a city could be an interesting story as the Lord attempts to do as much damage as possible while avoiding reprisal. The protagonist can be a survivor who keeps making it out by the skin of her teeth. Yeah, yeah! That does sound like a good idea!

Bill's growls drew Claudia from her introspections, her yellow trench coat flapping in the suddenly chilly wind. Bill barked, Bill howled, but Bill never growled. To say she was on edge would be a massive understatement.

Clutching at her purse, where she kept the buckshot-spewing pistol she bought a year ago after a particularly bad string of assaults in her neighborhood, she twisted to face the alleyway Bill growled at.

The light dampened as a large cloud passed over the sun, making it hard to make out the figure standing in the shadows of the tall brick buildings. But, she could tell three things.

The first was its size. It was large, unreasonably so, standing well over six feet tall with shoulders half as broad.

The second was the glow of its ruby red eyes as it peered out from the shadows, the lights illuminating its colorless skin.

The third was its soft, sickeningly pleasant voice that swirled around her and greeted her like an old friend.

"Claudia." Her old friend greeted her as it stepped into the light. For some reason, she couldn't quite recall its name, but she didn't want to be so rude as to ask! "It's been some time, hasn't it Claudia?"

Bill growled as it drew near and Claudia scowled, releasing the pistol to grab hold of Bill's leash with both hands. "I'm so sorry!" She exclaimed, dragging on Bill's leash. "I don't know what got into him!"

"It's fine, Claudia." With every time the thing said her name she felt the certainty that this was her old friend grow stronger and stronger. "How has Bill been? He certainly seems to be quite different than last time."

"Bill's doing fine." She says, struggling slightly to restrain the square-shouldered dog. The rude beast had its hackles raised and a snarl to its face. "Just had a run in with a strange thing, a Vampire Lord if you believe it!"

"I heard about that, Claudia." Her trusted confidant drew closer and Bill fought harder to escape her grasp. "Would you like to come with me, Claudia? I'm sure we can help you with this… problem of yours."

"W-well, I don't know…" She muttered as Bill thrashed like a poorly trained pup. His eyes begged to be released, but why would he need to be released right now? It's only her old friend after all. "The Service said that everything's clear with him…"

"The Service are incompetent, Claudia, you know as well as I that this is the case. Come on, let us go," her best friend smiled and offered a hand, "do you need help with Bill?"

"Yes, he's being such a naughty dog and I don't know why!" The hurt in his eyes was second only to the yelp of pain as her best friend struck her disobedient dog. Bill went limp in her arms, but that's what he gets for being a bad dog.

"Are you ready, Claudia?"

"Yes, yes I am."

A missing person's report would be filed two days after Claudia Berwitz' disappearance by her concerned boss.

~~~~~~~

GM's Note: You know what's really ironic? One of my dogs had to be put down the day before I wrote this.

Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST

Would you like another interlude or back to the story?
[ ] Another interlude!
-[ ] The Seeded Alleyway
-[ ] The American Ninja
-[ ] The Alps Defender
-[ ] The Talkative Outsider

[ ] Back to the story!

In a dreary alleyway in a dreary part of Chicago, rain splattered against the concrete floors. The fresh rainwater filtered through the cracks, rivulets of clean water pooled in the dents.

A black boot splashed in a puddle as its owner huddled further under his thick raincoat, pulling the yellow material around himself more.

"You sure this is the spot?" He turned to his companion, a man dressed in a similar manner to the first man—though his coat was blue instead of yellow.

His companion nodded, the water pooled in his hat sprayed out in a great splash. "Yeah, yeah this is where She said it'd be." His voice was much gruffer than the yellow coat wearing man, much older as well. "What, you having doubts in Her plan?"

The yellow man was quick to deny that, shaking his head while waving his arms in surrender. "No! No, of course I'm not doubting Her plan! I'm just doubting your ability to read maps."

"Upstart." The older, blue coated man scoffed as he pointed down the alleyway. "There, that's where She left it."

"That dumpster? Surely not."

"No, you idiot, under the dumpster." The older man smacked the younger yellow coat across the head. "Now go get it!"

"Fine, fine!" The younger man waved his arms as he approached the dumpster. With an exertion of strength, the young man forced the overflowing dumpster to the side, revealing what it had hidden.

His lips curled in a frown as he began to turn to the older man. "I don't see anyth-"

A trio of gunshots cut off his words as his bloody body hit the ground—throwing up great splashes of red-clouded water.

The old man's steps rang out in the suddenly quiet alleyway as he wiped down the gun with a clean rag. He sighed. "I'm sorry, but the plan requires sacrifice. And today, you are the offering." He placed the gun on the cooling corpse, pivoted, and walked away.

Blood soaked through the cracks, joining in the rivulets of water pooling below.

A pink, fleshy mass pulsed as it drank of the life-giving blood. Her seed finally taking root in the foundations of the city.

~~~~~~~

GM's Note: Yes, it is short, but I feel that it doesn't need to be any longer than this.

Do you want another interlude—which will be your final until the next time I offer them, or shall we return to the story?
[ ] Another interlude!
-[ ] The American Ninja
-[ ] The Alps Defender
-[ ] The Talkative Outsider

[ ] Back to the story!

Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST as always, thank you for reading!

Boston, Massachusetts, Cornerstone Earth. November 26th, 2118

Blood splattered against the cobblestone streets as a ninja made a final, fatal mistake. The darkness of night was illuminated by ever so brief showers of orange sparks as metal clashed against metal.

Ryan Tuckenburg, an acolyte of one of New England's many ninja schools and clans and dojos, was currently fighting for his life against an enemy that had already claimed the lives of many of his fellows.

The oscillating blades of the six-armed ninbots spun through the air in great, scything arcs as the arms rotated around a center axis. The rapidly vibrating lengths of metal chewed through the chest of an older shinobi, blood sprayed out in a crimson splash as cloth armor was ripped.

Ryan only just barely got his sword up in time to deflect the follow-up attack, the death of the older ninja the only reason his reflexes kicked in in time. His sword shattered from the force of the attack, but it was a sacrifice willingly paid.

Using what little power he could channel from the Ancestors, Ryan directed the flow of power to his cupped hands and into a Forceful Flame Burst—a technique used for defensive battlefield movement.

The tongues of fire flared against the chrome shell of the homicidal robot, warping the metal from the heat as the recoil propelled Ryan down the street—sirens in the distance drawing nearer as Ryan landed in a rolling crouch.

He sprang from the ground, the last words of his master clear in his mind as another of his family was cut down behind him by that marauding massacre machine. He would secure the Thunderblade, no matter the cost.

The young shinobi leapt down the street, bouncing from rooftop to rooftop as he sped across the cityscape towards the dojo he called home—a smoke cloud billowed in the night sky confirmed his worst fears.

His eyes flickered across the courtyard as he landed in a tree swaying in the wind. The courtyard was in ruins. The field where he sparred against the youths was now a smoking crater. The main building hurt his heart, its japanese-styled architecture was melting in the blazing inferno that had overtaken the compound. The orchard of fruit trees, where he had been engaged to his beloved—he ruthlessly crushed those broken memories under the weight of Duty, was nothing more than timber now.

Not one, not two, but three of those ninbots were rampaging about the compound, slaughtering the civilian members of the clan and the lone defenders that had remained behind. This wasn't surprising, not really, he had been preparing himself to ignore the faces of the dead and dying—to better do his Duty in this trying time.

He sped through the dying masses, the spilled blood of his kinsmen slippery on the floor. He didn't spare looks for their faces, he couldn't allow his emotions to have the best of him here. He ignored the stinging, salty wetness on his cheeks, there was no time.

The ninbots tried to stop him, but he was far too fast. He ducked and bounced, slid and rolled until he arrived at the inferno-engulfed front door to the central building. Channeling a mote of power through his limbs, he sheathed his body in a light coating of Heat Guarding Shell and leapt through the wall of fire—the technique protected his limbs and body from the licks of flame that tried to bar his path.

The first thing he saw as he burst through the fire was the broken body of one of the ninbots—a smooth, clean cut through the center axis is what took it out, which stoked the fires of determination in his stomach. They could be killed, they can win.

The smoke burned his eyes and throat. His eyes watered as he focused and sharpened his hearing, searching for any sound that could hint to the Thunderblade's location. The sword is far too powerful to be left undefended, so it must be in use currently. The wound the dead ninbot sported was in line with how the Thunderblade was described, that sword's cuts were always said to be smooth and clean.

There!

Ascending the mostly collapsed stairs, he followed the sounds of violence through the crackling flames as he emerged from the choking smoke and found himself in the ceremony chambers—where the various ceremonies of the clan were performed.

"Ryan!? Where is your master?" The clan's leader, an old gray-beard by the name of Matthew Tuckenburg, shouted as he danced around a pair of ninbots—the Thunderblade sparked in Matthew's hands as he carved a ravine through the chrome torso of a robot. The sword sparked and the entire body of the machine short-circuited. It fell back with a heavy, metallic clud.

"Dead." It hurt his heart to say that, the tears in his watery eyes weren't just from the smoke.

"I'm sorry."

The one remaining ninbot fell quickly to Matthew's overwhelming skill, even the relentless onslaught of the mechanical menaces can't stand against skill honed to a fine, deadly edge.

"Ryan," the elder ninja spoke, breathing heavily—it had been many years since Matthew had had to push himself as hard as he is now, "take the sword." The master ninja sheathed the Thunderblade and pressed it into Ryan's hands. "Take it far away and protect it, and yourself."

"Do you understand?"

"Y-yes." Ryan managed to say, overwhelmed by the situation but managing through the strength of Duty.

"Go, I will hold them off while you carry it away." The old man intoned, flexing his fists as wisps of channeled power floated off his body. Ryan nodded, accepting the order for what it was, and left.

Tears fell freely on that day.

~~~~~~~

Chicago, Illinois, Cornerstone Earth. The Present Day

The electricity-coated Thunderblade slid smoothly into its sheath as the last clone fell apart into three equally sliced chunks.

Ryan Tuckenburg had done many things since leaving the compound, some bad, but most good. Joining the Service, he feels, is one of the good ones.

Perhaps they can help him in his quest for vengeance?

~~~~~~~

GM's Note: And now we're done with the interludes, for a little while at least. I'll post the next part of Grave Robbing in an hour or so, probably.

You realized, after you returned to your apartment, that you don't actually have anywhere truly safe to keep the Chainsaw.

So, until you can find something or someplace to store it safely, you're just sort of lugging it around. Fortunately for your poor arms, the Chainsaw is a shockingly light machine—for a chainsaw, at least. It's still plenty heavy, but you can easily carry it with one hand as long as you're not expecting to get stuck in heavy fighting for any extended periods of time.

Which is why, when you walk into Baba's house-shop-combo, you're carrying the Chainsaw by its handle.

The salon is looking a whole lot cleaner than the last time you stopped by. The stacks of dusty, old books are stowed away in boxes—ironic, given how the boxes of books are now piled in stacks themselves. The mirrors look as though they've been polished a bit, a subtle shine to the glowing reflection. The lightbulbs bordering the mirrors look to have been replaced at some point.

All in all, it's been doing better.

"Baba! I'm here!" You call out into the seemingly empty storefront as the little bell jingles, announcing your arrival.

"Ah, tygrysek! I had been wondering just where you had run off to!" Baba happily emerges from behind a stack of boxes, hands clapping together. Baba is currently dressed in a thick, woolen dress with little blue floral patterns. A white apron wraps around her ample, rock-hard waist—the apron pocket has a slight bulge in it, where she keeps a supply of dust in case of emergency. A yellow and gray shawl on her head ties the whole ensemble together.

Her eyes lock on the Chainsaw, bushy eyebrows arching high on her wrinkled forehead. "Now, where'd you get such a thing like that?"

You scuff the ground with a boot. "Oh, you know, tracked it down and took a day to travel down to Kansas to get it. Lawrence, to be exact."

"Lawrence?" She pronounces it like 'law-wenz'. Baba nods, her shawl bobbing up and down. "Makes sense, that place is a hotspot for the supernatural. It is only logical that such a thing as this would turn up in such a place as that. You do know what that is, yes?"

"Of course," you laugh, "it's the Chainsaw, an heirloom of my family."

"Ah, an heirloom! I had been concerned that you'd been lugging it around to flex or show off. Never a good idea." She admonishes this hypothetical situation.

"The only reason I have it on me right now is because I don't have anywhere safe to keep it while I'm out and about." You reply, setting the cherry red Chainsaw down on an empty table—that had once held a tacklebox full of pickled fingers.

"Perhaps I can help you with that, later of course." She offers as she summons a bowl on an arm of dust. The bowl seems to contain some kind of especially pure water, so pure the only way you can tell it is there is thanks to the glare of light from the outside. There's a slight frown on her face as she scours her hand clean with lengths of sawing dust.

"Of course." You reply as she dips a gnarled, old finger in the pool. Waves and ripples flow from the finger as she slowly swirls it around the bowl in large, lazy circles. "So, what're you doing here? Some kind of scrying or divination, obviously, but what for and why?"

Her frown deepens as the pool darkens, showcasing a murky patch of kelp-choked water. "Because, Arabesh-lel Kran-komar is in a rather unfortunate location."

You can feel your mood plummet as the pool shifts, revealing a decapitated head laying in the grasping water vines. The head is clearly not human in origin. Its skin is stone gray, its features far too chiseled for a human face. Hard angles and harsh edges make up its face in overlapping lines. It… reminds you somewhat of those old, ancient cartoons—like He-Man or something along those lines.

"Dammit." You swear, slumping over as you take a seat. As you go to continue speaking—you're not too sure where you were going to go with that, Old Baba cuts you off and saves you from .

"Fortunately for us, the Astakloraon here is a member of the Once-Young, meaning that we just have to piece him back together and he'll spring to life, just like a living puppet in the movies!"

You blink, the wind suddenly leaving your metaphorical sails. "Well, that certainly makes things easier. Just, uh, where exactly is the location?" You ask, finger pointing vaguely at the pool of the now murky water.

"Lake Michigan, on the Chicagoan shore. Come on, I'll show you the way." She gestures for you to follow as she puts on a jacket.

"Thanks, Baba." You smile and follow her to her car, a small green thing that looks like it's from the late 1960s. The general shape of it vaguely resembles a beetle of somesort. The interior of this vehicular specimen was done in white leather with an almond finish.

It's a comfortable ride, with Baba driving of course. But it is a quiet one. So quiet that you feel the need to fill it with something.

What do you talk to Baba about? Do you want to ask her any questions or do you just want to sit in silence?
[ ] Ask her some questions (Please write in some)
[ ] Sit in silence

~~~~~~~

GM's Note: Boom, bam, bop, we're back on track.

Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST.

"Hey Baba? Where does magic come from?" You eventually ask as you get comfortable in the white leather chair. You might as well use this time to get some lessons in.

"Good question, but some clarifications must be first asked. Do you refer to the concept of magic? Or do you refer to the power that fuels spells?"

"Both."

She laughs, a deep, echoing thing. "A good answer! But yes, I shall begin teaching now. Magic, the concept, is the term given to the ability to do things beyond what your kind should be able to do. A dragon breathing fire isn't magic, but a human breathing fire is. You understand, yes?"

"I think so," you mutter, stroking your chin, "what the dragon does is natural to it. It breathing fire is something innate to its being. A human, on the other hand, cannot naturally breathe fire, meaning that we have to get outside help, such as magic or whatever fire eaters use. Right?"

"Correct." She nods before swapping to the next question. "The power that fuels magic, what is it? The answer is that magic comes from an internal source of energy generated by living things being alive. Every single time your itsy-bitsy cells perform mitosis, every time your white blood cells consume a virus, every time your gut fauna digests food for you, magic gets produced as a byproduct."

She slaps her bicep, the muscle rippling. "Why do you think I am so large? Besides the aesthetic, of course."

"...because more cells equals more magic?"

"Exactly, tygrysek!" She then waves her hand in a dismissive gesture. "Those slender sorceresses you see in CosmoMagician? Fakes and store-bought glamours, the lot of them. Except for Matilda and that other one, Beverly. The former uses sub-dimensions to 'hide' her extra mass while the latter," she squints, "shifts it to certain places using biowizardry."

Honestly, you have no idea what she's talking about. CosmoMagician? Is that some kind of magazine like Traps Quarterly? Perhaps you should look into it sometime. They might have some tips and tricks for you to use to spice things up.

"But anyways, moving on." She declares, putting things back on track. "There are four ways to do magic, divided into two categories. Internal and External. Internal magic focuses on using your own internal supply of magic to cast spells. External magic focuses on using the supply of others to do magic.

Baba takes a deep breath before launching into the different methods. All things you've learned before, but certainly useful to get it again, perhaps in a way that you can better understand. "The first way of doing magic is through Sorcery, an Internal method. Quick, non-permanent effects that can be cast without any preparations at all, but at significant magic costs. It is often used for combat, though it isn't always the case. The second way of doing magic is through Wizardry, the other Internal method. Wizardry is slower than Sorcery and requires prep time and materials. But it is quite a bit cheaper and can produce permanent effects."

She swaps to the External methods. "The first External method is called Witchery, which I find myself most proficient in. Witchery is all about taking magical things and forcing them into service in other ways. It is the method of the enchanter and the potion maker.One can use Witchery to enchant a sword to produce flames by binding a spirit of fire to it, the internal supply of the fire spirit will power the sword. And potion making is done by collecting parts of magical entities and combining them in cauldrons." Old Baba's face twists into a frown as she moves on to the fourth and final method.

"The second External method, and the final we shall talk about today, is called Channelry. Channelry is further divided into three sections, Contract, Supply, and Ambiance Channeling. Contract Channeling is what most think of when they hear 'Channelry'. I find it distasteful. I cannot imagine willingly binding myself to the will of another being, it simply does not… I can't comprehend what would drive a person to such things."

She sighs, slumping a bit. "But I digress, Contract Channeling is when a greater being will allow you to use a modicum of its internal supply. This is done through a contract of sorts, detailing what the entity will allow you to use its magical energy for and what it wants in exchange. These are oftentimes rather one sided affairs, though it will not seem that way in the moment. Any being powerful enough to be able to give up a portion of their own magic is a being capable of seeing far ahead of you." She trails off, falling silent as she seems to look into the past.

"What about the others you mentioned, Supply and Ambiance Channeling?" You ask, making a note to investigate Contract Channeling on your own time. It's clear that Baba's biased against it.

"Ah, those! I had forgotten, thank you for reminding me." She brightens up at the slight change of topic. "Supply Channeling is simple as, uh, american apple crumble. That is the term, yes?" You shrug, it's close enough. "You put power in an object, such as a gemstone or battery—which, for reasons I don't fully understand, work wonderfully as magical storage devices, and then draw the power out later. It is simple. It is easy. I recommend you do it as I do it too." She pats her apron pocket, the one containing the supply of dust.

"And the final?"
"Ambiance is gathering magical energy from the environment surrounding you. Essentially, it's what druids and their kin like to do. It's a bit complicated, but it boils down to, what is effectively, magical begging." She shrugs, hands on the wheel as her broad shoulders rise and fall. "I don't like to do it as it relies on how the local spirits feel about you. And, as a Witch of some renown, I tend to piss spirits off."

You nod, mentally—and physically, noting things down while pulling out the next question on the docket. "Do you have any suggestions for quickly increasing magic capabilities without selling your soul?"

The muscle-bound woman leans her head back and laughs. "Child, there are as many paths to power as there are stars in the night sky." She wipes a mirthful tear from her eye. "Ah, the curiosity of the young. Never lose that, child. But to answer your question, yes. There are many ways to speed your training along, but none of them are 'wholesome', as the youths put it."

Her voice lowers, a serious glimmer enters her eyes. "But I was young once, just as you are now. I wanted power and I wanted it right that moment. I shall tell you what I did, and why it was a mistake. This is a warning, so take it seriously."

Oh, oh this is some serious shit right here. There's something about her words that forces you to listen, to put her speech to memory.

"I stole it." She says with some flicker of pride in her voice. "I stole time."

You blink, that doesn't make any sense at all! "How… how does one steal time?"

"With great difficulty." The old woman smiles. "And by entering the Time Vault, located in the Upper Plane. I will not tell you where exactly it is, but it is still there last I checked. Once in the Time Vault, you sneak past the Hourglass Guardians, beings of such power they make Dragons tremble." You note the capitalization and resolve to never, ever encounter one of these Guardians. "Once inside the inner sanctum, you must steal the Sand of Time." A distant look comes over her face as she says that, but she shakes it off and moves on.

"I gained tremendous power, some of which I still have. But… there was a price. I became someone I did not want to be, I mantled a title I had no right to have and forced myself into a role I never should have been casted for. I got out of it, of course, but I had to start from scratch—through reincarnation." She sighs, shoulders going limp. "Even now I still pay for my transgressions. I will return to that role, once I finally succumb. But on a brighter note, I got to live a much better life the second time around!" She finishes with a smile as you let that whole thing sink. Halfway through, you decide that the best way to do that is by asking more questions.

"Baba, why is it that super-scientists have so much trouble learning magic?"

"Little super-scientist, tell me, what is super-science?" She answers your question with one of her own as she turns the wheel.

You ponder for a moment. What is super-science? That is quite the question. Is she talking philosophically? Practically? You bet she's talking practically, Baba doesn't seem to be the type to ask a weird philosophical question. "Super-science is about pushing the limits and breaking the rules of what is and what can be done."

"Exactly, tygrysek. Magic, on the other hand, has limits. It has rules. It requires a completely different mindset than super-science. One must be flexible, but know when to stop." She explains as you try to put it together. Magic has rules? It has limits? Nobody told you this! What are these rules and limits? You'll break them apart for daring to stand in your way!

You open your mouth to continue your diatribe, but she puts a finger to your lips—silencing you. "See, tygrysek? You're going at it like a super-scientist, trying to find out all the parts of the puzzle. You want to push the limits, bend them till they break. With magic, you simply must accept some things for what they are."

You're… going to need some time to think about that, you feel. But that's for later, right now you've got questions to ask and ask you shall! Captive audiences are the best!

"Baba? What's the animosity between you and Damien about?"

"Aren't you just a font of questions?" A smile graces her wizened face as she pinches your cheek. "It is a simple thing. In my young years, before I decided to 'screw it' and go with the flow, I was a ruffian and a hellion." She pokes her belly button, or where it would be under her clothes. "So much so that he was assigned to a team dedicated to stopping me from doing my thing. He drove an iron nail into my stomach, right through my belly button, which cut off my ability to do magic for some time. I did manage to almost sever the bond between him and that Arming Devil of his, though, so it was well deserved. After that I settled down and had a family." She squints. "Which now, I suppose, contains Miloslava of all people." The witch descends into mutterings about 'gold diggers' and the like while you formulate your next question.

"Any recommendations on benevolent spirits or entities to contract with? Something like the shikigami of Japan?"

"Household spirits are your best bet most of the time. Banshees, if you can produce some shred of evidence that you are of noble blood, are especially helpful for avoiding danger. Eudaimons and Guardian Angels will provide assistance not just in your day to day, but also in more martial matters should it come to that. Vedogon will protect your sleeping self from harmful dreams and any would-be attackers. I'm sure there are some Egyptian spirits that would help you, but I am not overly familiar with them." You note them down, perhaps you can find some and make a deal with them? "You sure have a lot of questions today, don't you?"

You shrug, a grin tracing its way across your face. "What can I say? I'm a curious girl. And I've got more questions."

She laughs. "Ask away, curiosity is a thing that should be cherished."

"Any advice on prophecies? There's a mark on my soul, put there by the Mayan gods, and I was wondering if that had any effect on anything prophetical."

She 'ahs'. "I had been wondering about that mark, very out of place in an otherwise neat and orderly signature. But, it is best to simply ignore prophecies. If it is real it will come to pass, if it isn't, well, you didn't follow it so nothing is lost. For every prophecy that is true, there are tens of thousand that aren't. Trying to force one is a poor idea, self-fulfilling prophecies are a thing after all."

You pat the Chainsaw in the floor bed. "So… I've got an ancestor up and about, wandering around. Could the Chainsaw be used to find him? It used to belong to him after all."

She blinks, eyelids twitching as her eyes go wide. "A-ashley J. Williams walks the Earth once more? Disturbing." You scowl and she elaborates. "The man was an incompetent, mentally ill jackass of a loner who spent most of his life doing the two things he was any good at—killing demons and killing time working for S-Mart."

You try to refute her claim but, well the records don't exactly paint him as the most stand-up of guys… "He wasn't entirely incompetent," you mutter, "he built the Chainsaw after all."

"Of course he did, it was for killing demons. But, you don't need to worry yourself about meeting him. People like him have a habit of showing up at odd times." She parks the car as she finishes speaking. "We're here."

You've arrived at the shoreline, a little ways out from the city. It's grassy, there's a farm nearby, and there's a small fishing shack.

Now then, what to do?
[ ] Head on down to the head, see if you can't fish it up before something, or someone, else does
[ ] Get the lay of the land, make sure there's no one nearby that might be in on it
[ ] Talk to the farmer and the fisherman, if they're home of course. It's possible that they saw something when the body was dumped.

~~~~~~~

GM's Note: This one took me a while to get out. Guess that's what I get for playing too much MW5, lmao.

Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST, thanks for watching!